Sorry for the short chapter! I wasn't sure if I wanted to get into Ramsay's head, but I'm glad I did. It was very different than the way I thought it would turn out, but it's pretty eye opening to put yourself in a psychopath's shoes.

I'm going to be out of town until Sunday night so I won't have much time to write the next chapter, but I'm hoping to have it done and posted by early next week. Until then, I hope this holds you over!

Thank you for all the great feedback and comments, hope you all enjoy it!

RAMSAY

Rage seemed to be radiating from every fibre in his body. He didn't care for the girl, his stupid, albeit beautiful, wife. But for her to have the audacity to leave without his permission was by far the most frustrating thing he'd experienced in quite some time. He'd been reeling for weeks. He spent his days sending raven after raven, accusing various lords and houses of hiding his wife. Sometimes he just wrote to her in the hopes of something reaching her; telling her that he would be coming for her. He couldn't wait to wrap his hands around her porcelain neck, hold her down and –

A knock on his door woke him from his reverie. He'd been in the capitol for over six weeks now, having left Winterfell with a small party a few days after the battle with Stannis Baratheon. He couldn't wait to be out of there and back to the seclusion of the north. He felt so… exposed here. Like he had to pretend once again like he was a loving husband who simply missed his wife and was simply angry about the fact that someone surely kidnapped her. He shook himself and bade the visitor to enter.

"A message for you, Lord Bolton." It was one of his servants who had accompanied him from Winterfell. He always looked afraid. Ramsay couldn't imagine why, and found it rather entertaining.

He took the scroll from the servant and shooed him away with a flick of his wrist. Not waiting for further instructions, the man all but ran out of the room. Smirking, he sat on the leather chair by the fireplace and opened the curled parchment.

The dragon has found a pet wolf.

An evil grin twisted Ramsay's features. His father thought he was insane but clearly his efforts had proven fruitful, and much sooner than even he had expected. He salivated at the thought of seeing his wife again. Knowing that she would be terrified, pleading him for mercy, made him more aroused that he had been in a very long time.

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"You expect us to sail across the narrow sea to collect Sansa? I knew you were mad, Ramsay, but this is too much, even for you." Roose sat at the head of the table in the great hall. Ramsay and his party had just ridden back to Winterfell, wanting to collect more men, weapons, and supplies. His son stood at the other end of the table, a strange, half-smile on his face.

"Why father, she is my wife and the lady of Winterfell. Surely you wouldn't keep your son from his true love, would you?" Ramsay put on his most gallant smile which was more terrifying than it was convincing. His father raised an eyebrow at him, annoyance mixed with mild amusement marked on his face. Ramsay looked away then, towards a large family painting of the Starks which was mounted above the fireplace. He stared at the red hair, imagining it tangled between his fingers, hearing that sweet mouth scream in pain. He was lost in his fantasies when he finally heard his father's exasperated reply.

"Winter is coming. We cannot afford to waste the resources for a frivolous trip south for your plaything. We don't need her anymore now that you're married and consummated." He paused, considering. "Although, an heir would have been nice" he added cruelly.

Ramsay whipped his head back to his father and regarded him coldly in the eyes. "It wasn't for lack of trying, father. Perhaps she's barren." He could feel the rage bubbling up in him again as he stared at his father, imagining all the ways that he could kill him; each more painful and bloody than the last.

Roose snorted in amusement. "Her mother had five children. Surely you don't expect me to believe that a girl from such pedigree would be unable to bear children. Maybe the problem lies with the dog, rather than the bitch." He turned his attention back to his papers, before concluding: "Although it has been said that a woman under stress has a more difficult time getting pregnant." He looked at his son then, thoughtfully. "Surely you see how Lady Sansa could hardly be alone to blame for her troubles in conceiving? I know you have your perverse tastes, Ramsay, but she was your wife – "

"Is my wife." He replied coldly, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the table even harder. "And I will have her returned to me, if I have to drag her through the Narrow Sea myself." He spat the last word and pulled himself up straight, with calculated effort. "Father," he smiled sweetly, "I will have my wife here again. And I plan to get her as soon as may be possible. All I ask is for one ship, a dozen men, and enough food and supplies to last us the journey. She is your daughter by law, after all."

"The answer is no." he shouted, slamming his fists down on his papers. "Damn you, Ramsay. I will not finance a fruitless effort at the brink of winter for you to hunt down your abused wife just for the sake of your fragile ego!" He leaned back on his chair then and took a deep breath. "We will wait out the winter here and once spring comes we will discuss Sansa's rescue." He spoke the last word sarcastically and gave his son a look which clearly indicated that the conversation was over.

Without being given leave or having spoken another word, Ramsay stormed out of the room followed by two of his men. Once in his private chambers he told them: "Find me a ship, gather men and supplies. We leave tomorrow at sunlight."